


Of Myth and Manbavaran

by Sorceress of the Keys (krizzlybear)



Category: Little Witch Academia
Genre: Gen, Memoirs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 20:42:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14065185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krizzlybear/pseuds/Sorceress%20of%20the%20Keys
Summary: The role that Sucy Manbavaran played in the mythology of the great witch Atsuko Kagari has diminished to the point of absurdity. Sucy notes in her memoir some decades later, that her own personal legacy is worth retelling as she is given the title of 45th headmistress of Luna Nova Academy.A loving homage to Fifth Business, this is a story about dreams, the Philippines, and the examination of the mythos and canon of Sucy Manbavaran.





	Of Myth and Manbavaran

Contrary to popular belief, when I pushed Atsuko "Akko" Kagiri off a bridge into a river in Blytonbury in 2017, I had not done so because of her incessant waxing lyrical of her idol, Shiny Chariot. The gesture in itself was spurred by a previous incident that dated long before my meeting with Miss Kagari, as far as three years prior, on New Year's Eve of 2014 in my home village of Ibo, Philippines.

I am able to recollect this moment because it was not only the eve of the New Year, but it was also my thirteenth birthday, and I remember that I was walking home from a festival with my younger sister, whose name I choose not to mention at this moment, for it is not important. We had quarreled on our way home because I had insisted that we go home in time to celebrate my birthday with our Lola. Our family was just the two of us and lola, who the village had come to revere by virtue of her seniority and ability to bake various goods. She would prepare the finest of treats on each of our birthdays, and I was looking forward to celebrating my tenth birthday at home, in the comfort of our small, yet humble family. We were only afforded a few pesos to buy whatever treats that were sold at the New Year's festival, but back in those days, it was enough to at least split a pan disal between the two of us. Anticipating a much more satiable treat at home, I let my sister have the entire bun, and hoped the entire time that we wouldn't have to bicker much longer.

On the way back home, she grew in disagreeability to the point of goading me into footraces and other tests of ability, to crown the superior sister. For as long as I could remember, I had won every single one of these challenges by virtue of being three years my sister's senior, and at this point she was ten, and I was celebrating my thirteenth, and I already developing my own individuality in both mind and body. While she ran ahead and claimed glory for reaching the bridge first between the two of us, my mind wandered to the various reeds and weeds that lined the riverbank, curious as to their composition and their biological features.

Our village was so small, and its borders were drawn by the rivers that ran through them; to be able to do anything or go anywhere worthwhile, we would have to cross one of three bridges that led elsewhere. The west bridge led to the farms that most of the adults tended; the south bridge led to town, where Lola's bakery was set up in a shanty space that clearly was against construction and zoning laws that city officials looked the other way on; and finally, the east bridge led to the local church, Saint Therese of the Child Jesus, where the New Years festival was always held. Naturally, we were by the east bridge, and by the time I had caught up to my sister, it was understood that we would race across, as home would only be a few blocks away from the other side.

" _Ate_ ," my sister said – as a younger sister ought to properly address – "if I beat you across the bridge, I get to eat your share of your birthday cake!"

She hurriedly pushed off me to propel herself to a head start, and while I was at the age that I didn't particularly care whether or not I won, in my mind I was not about to lose out a special cake that our Lola made, and I made a personal point to not lose to my younger sibling on my own birthday. As one would expect, I had quickly made up the distance and then some, effortlessly winning the race back home. As proud as I could make myself to be, I eagerly sat down in the dining room table waiting for Lola to reward me with the treat that I was due, but after a few minutes, I realized that nobody was home, and that I had not noticed that I left the door unlocked before I left. A few minutes after that, I had also realized that my sister had not yet arrived from our previous race, and instead I was greeted by the sound of heavy rain pounding against the dirt street.

I felt an overwhelming onset of guilt, for I knew that Lola would probably come home wondering where my sister was, and that, being responsible for her safety, I was to blame for her disappearance. I set out without thinking, hurriedly taking whatever items that was around me at the time, which included a _walis tambo_ , and the keys to the house so I could lock up behind me. I ran into the village pastor, Father Olivier, and his wife, both of whom stood a few feet away from the slowly flooding river, right by the east bridge.

"You there, with the broom!" Father said to me worriedly, gesturing at the _walis_ in my hand. "We need your help! The heavy downpour has washed that poor girl into the river, and she's holding on to dear life on a handful of reeds. Use your broom so you could help that young girl out!"

In my sheer horror I had looked ahead to where Father had pointed downstream, and in my view was my sister, crying and fighting for her life against the violently rushing stream that threatened to spirit her away forever. In the indecision of my youth, the sudden shakes that had overcome my entire body froze me in place, and without the opportunity to look away, her body had disappeared into the stream in an instant.

Father Olivier made the sign of the cross, and his wife cried out. I stood, still paralyzed, unable to tell the difference between my own tears and the pouring rain that ran down my face. I ran away with my keys and broom, for what felt like forever. It was like a sorcerer had cast a curse on my entire body and forced me to experience such a trauma.

In the three years since, I had run away from home, learning the ways of potioncraft and simple alchemy, that I had honed an elementary knowledge of witchcraft that afforded me a reputation for street magic across the mainland, and ultimately, an invitation to attend the prestigious Luna Nova.

And that is how, in my moment of hesitation in meeting Miss Kagari on that so-called fateful day, I absentmindedly introduced myself to her as the nickname that I had gained in my native Philippines performing street magic: _Susi Manbavaran_ , or the sorceress of the keys.

\--- 

The reason why I begin this memoir with a recollection of a – or rather, _the_ – horrific tale from my childhood some forty plus years prior to the composition of this memoir is threefold. First, I aim to dismiss the notion that greatness is born from adoration of greatness, like that of Miss Kagari towards Chariot. We all know that, right from the moment she opened her mouth during my first meeting with her, she would not stop talking about the feats of Shiny Chariot, and that she successfully redefined her legend by virtue of sheer repetition (before then, Chariot's reputation was of dubious nature). In accomplishing this, Miss Kagari also dictated the terms of her own mythos, ascending to the same level of heroism, what with the speaking of the words of Arcturus and saving the world countless times over. In direct opposition, I present myself, now headmistress, to you, ex-headmistress. While I have confided in you in my teen years following my entrance to Luna Nova, I must apologize that in none of our meetings have I mentioned my sister or that day. But I insist that it is from those origins that my role as protagonist of my own life was established. And if any story recounting my own life and times is to be told, it duly begins with that dreadful storm back in Ibo.

Second, I aim to shed light on what I feel is the woeful ignorance of my own ethnicity by the very same mythology of Miss Kagari's greatness and those surrounding her. For all of the diversity that Luna Nova preaches in its selection of prospective witches, Miss Kagari's story tells of her closest friends and compatriots; Lotte Jansson, renowned for her summoning prowess and communication with the spirits of Finnish antiques; Diana Cavendish, from Great Britain, whose bloodline is as noble and fanciful as that of Arthur himself; Amanda O'Neill, whose brashness is spoken of with the very spirit of America itself; Constanze Amalie von Braunschbank Albrechtsberger, magitech prodigy whose works reek of refined German development and engineering; Jasminka Antonenko, whose appetite warranted her figure as diminutively shapely as the Matryoshkas of her Russian heritage; And least of all, Sucy Manbavaran, who would rise up to become the headmistress of Luna Nova, known primarily for her knack for potions and alchemy, yet duly remembered without a home country to speak of? Preposterous! While I do admit that my acceptance to Luna Nova is under the name of which I had originally and fraudulently introduced to Miss Kagari, none of the oral traditions that count her accomplishments speak of my homeland, my close personal ties thereto, or its influence on my very existence and personality (which again, has been recorded faultily). Should a young _pinay_ happen upon these writings some ages into the future and strive for my greatness the way Miss Kagari did with Chariot, I would deem this memoir as an ultimate success.

And lastly, my relationship with myself and how I view my own past, which I now feel adequately capable of sharing here, is a significant player in the stage from which the narrative of my two greatest achievements to date are told: how I developed dream-centric alchemical therapy in my senior year at Luna Nova, and I used said dream therapy to teach Miss Kagari to finally fly a broom, thereby cementing her legacy in full. Without consideration for my thirteenth birthday and its unfortunate events therein, I would not have been able to come to terms with my own humanity and witch-hood, and to face the respective shadows of Miss Kagari and myself within the therapy and thereby honing its process. It is a long and complicated retelling, but it makes up the defining moment of my life and achievements, encompassing the legacy which I choose to pass to future generations by way of memoir.

Thus, in accordance with the Luna Nova tradition, by your request, dear ex-headmistress, and out of necessity to clear my name from the canon that curses me to this very day, I accept the title of 45th headmistress of Luna Nova, and recount the tale that brought me to this position.


End file.
